Ghost Gum Valley

by Johanna Nicholls

  Garnet’s face was taut, a noticeable pulse on his temple. ‘I had not forgotten.’

  ‘Nothing’s changed. No Emancipist’s son is allowed to marry into their hallowed ranks! I defy you, Garnet. Name just one.’

  Garnet banged his fist for emphasis, sending a whisky glass flying. ‘You will be the first – or one of us will die in the attempt!’

  Marmaduke responded calmly. ‘When are you going to accept the truth, Garnet? I don’t give a damn what your precious Quality thinks of me. But they’ve got you by the balls because you’re the one who cares!’

  Garnet’s response was to ring the servant’s bell. The two men glowered at each other in silence until Black Mary, a timid little Aboriginal girl, scampered across the Persian carpet and removed the shards of broken glass.

  ‘Let’s get back to the question of Mingaletta, Garnet.’

  The glint in his father’s pale blue eyes showed him that Garnet was not to be deterred.

  ‘I have it on authority you’ve shown no inclination to court respectable young ladies.’

  Marmaduke shrugged. ‘Unlike you, I conduct my liaisons with discretion.’

  ‘It seems you are more attracted to unsavoury company. Prize-fighters, actors, jockeys and drinking companions who’ve never married and are devoted to their mothers. Like that radical firebrand who’s always in court involved in one libel suit after another.’

  Marmaduke forced himself to keep his tone light. ‘Rupert Grantham? Clever fellow. A most entertaining host. It takes all kinds to make the world go around, Garnet.’

  ‘So it’s true?’ Garnet asked sharply. ‘You intend to be a perennial bachelor like our lawyer Edwin Bentleigh?’ The innuendo was obvious.

  ‘Leave Edwin out of this! He’s a true friend and the most ethical lawyer in Sydney. He’s devoted to his invalid mother. And so involved in trying to save his impoverished clients from the gallows he hasn’t got time to court any girl!’

  Garnet shrugged. ‘If I doubted his quality as a lawyer I’d have fired him years back.’

  Marmaduke needed to even the score. ‘You pay your informants. But you forget that Sydney Town is a rumour mill. Most are patently false. Remember? Rumour even had it that Mother married you for love.’

  The barb thrust as deep as he intended. Garnet jumped to his feet bellowing.

  ‘I forbid you to take your mother’s name in vain! We shared a depth of love and loyalty totally beyond your comprehension. You’re incapable of love!’

  Marmaduke almost smiled. For the moment he knew he had gained the upper hand.

  ‘We agree on that one point, Garnet. I shall never marry. Now hand over the deeds to Mingaletta and let’s end this farce once and for all.’

  Garnet’s anger evaporated like smoke. ‘I fully intended to do so when you proved yourself mature, a gentleman of substance. But I can’t wait any longer for that miracle. I have decided it is time to marry.’

  Marmaduke was thrown off kilter. ‘So, you intend to marry Elise and instal her here officially as my stepmother?’

  Garnet made him wait for his answer. ‘I’m not such an old fool I’d confer respectability on a mistress whose favours are so easily bought.’

  Marmaduke’s curiosity forced his question. ‘Then who’s the lucky bride?’

  ‘A young woman of impeccable virtue and bloodline, the daughter of an aristocratic family.’ He removed a miniature portrait from a desk drawer and offered it with a flourish.

  ‘It’s taken two years of protracted legal negotiations with this young lady’s guardian. I took the precaution of having this commissioned. I’m assured it is a true likeness. This girl is the key to our total acceptance in the Colony. A de Rolland will be welcome to dine at His Excellency Governor Sir Richard Bourke’s table.’

  Marmaduke pretended to study her image with mild interest. It was painted in chocolate box mode with bland, insipid features. But he was well aware that his father’s second marriage to a young woman was likely to provide another heir. Would this marriage wreck his chances of claiming Mingaletta?

  Garnet was eyeing him keenly. ‘What do you think of her?’

  ‘Hard to tell. She looks like a mere child. The face is bovine. The flesh suggests she’s on the bony side. A flat bosom. Consumptive perhaps? I take it she comes from good breeding stock? Unlikely to die on the voyage out before you get your money’s worth?’

  ‘My London lawyers have investigated every detail. The girl is young, healthy, above average in education. Her virtue is beyond question. Kept under lock and key since puberty.’

  ‘Then she must be weak in the head. Why else would this noble family send their paragon of virtue thirteen thousand miles to wed a nouveau riche colonial?

  ‘Her guardian was on the brink of debtor’s prison. My offer was the family’s salvation. The girl’s in no position to be anything but tractable. She’ll give us no trouble.’

  ‘Give us no trouble? Why should I worry? She’ll play no part in my life once you marry her. Just sign over the deeds to Mingaletta and you’ll be quit of me. I’m happy to sign anything as proof I’ll make no claim on your estate against any of my future half siblings.’

  Garnet’s smile was so confident that Marmaduke felt distinctly uneasy.

  ‘On the contrary, Marmaduke. I have not negotiated for this noble young lady to be my bride – she is yours!’

  ‘You jest, sir!’ Marmaduke leapt to his feet and thrust the portrait across the desk.

  ‘Dead serious. Follow my plan to the letter. Marry the bride I’ve chosen. Then you take full possession of Mingaletta. It’s a fair trade. Your de Rolland bride will bring you stability. Blot out your tarnished status in the eyes of Colonial Society. The killing of a man in a duel does not endear men to Governor Bourke – he’s frightfully moral.’

  Marmaduke now knew the truth. He had kept his temper but lost Mingaletta.

  ‘I’ll be damned if I’ll be a pawn in your game. I’m going straight to Edwin. We’ll take immediate steps to break off this absurd liaison before the poor benighted girl sets sail.’

  Garnet looked confident. ‘Too late. The contracts are all signed, the money’s transferred. In a couple of months her ship will arrive in Port Jackson. You will be there to welcome her. Unless you wish to dishonour the deathbed promise you made to your mother?’

  Marmaduke was so appalled he almost laughed. ‘My God. This is infamous even for you. It’s like a deal between Faust and the Devil.

  ‘Use your head, boy. This way we both get what we want. I have reserved a suite of rooms for her at my new hotel, the Princess Alexandrina.’

  Marmaduke was jolted. ‘So that’s yours? I should have guessed, it’s so ostentatious.’

  Garnet ignored the insult. ‘No doubt the bride will arrive with a mountain of trunks. In addition to the contract, I sent a handsome gift of money for a lady’s maid to accompany her and to order her a Paris trousseau that will bedazzle every lady of Quality in the Colony.’

  Marmaduke saw that Garnet was unstoppable, his eyes unnaturally bright as he rattled off the details of the wedding to be performed at St James’s Church, the new organ he would donate, the guest list drawn from the cream of colonial society.

  Garnet delivered the final coup de grâce. ‘The deeds to Mingaletta are here in my safe. They await my signature after you consummate the marriage.’

  Inwardly seething with rage but outwardly calm, Marmaduke rose to take his leave.

  ‘You seem to have everything signed, sealed and delivered, Garnet. Except for one small point. You don’t have my consent.’

  Mounted on the ebony stallion ready to return to Sydney Town, Marmaduke turned to take a final look at the house of his childhood that was haunted by so many dark secrets.

  The front doors flew open and Elise hurried down the steps. Running to his side she grabbed hold of his reins to detain him.

  Marmaduke tried not to look at her. But as much as he held his father’s mistress in contempt it was di
fficult to ignore her beauty – and her distress.

  Her words came in broken phrases. ‘Marmaduke. You’re leaving without saying goodbye? I need to talk to you. Alone. Only you can help me. Your father’s mental state grows worse. I’m desperate.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘I don’t know how much longer I can do what he wants of me.’

  As he unwound the fingers of the pale hand clinging to his reins he flinched to see the emerald ring his mother had worn for her portrait. It gave him no pleasure to see Elise’s unnaturally pale complexion flush and her eyes fill with tears.

  ‘You’ll manage, Elise. You’re well trained for the role. He pays you handsomely, no doubt.’

  Remaining in the saddle, Marmaduke swept his hat from his head and bowed low in imitation of the flamboyant flourish he had seen an actor perform on stage at the Comédie Française. Elise responded as she would to royalty with a curtsey so deep it revealed the curve of her breasts, a gesture he suspected was by design.

  It would be almost worth bringing home that blue-blooded bride, just to see Elise’s face when she realises she’s been usurped as mistress of Bloodwood Hall.

  Chapter 5

  De Rolland Park, Gloucestershire, England, February 1833

  Isabel pulled the old overcoat around her shoulders as she stood shivering on the castellated walkway on the roof of her ancestral home. Below her lay the expanse of countryside, bathed in a pale, uncertain light. She shivered at the sight of the ice on the lake that was beginning to thaw. That lake had nearly drowned her. She cut off the images, sounds, and the fear of water that she had learnt to push back into the dark recesses of her memory.

  I’m alive. That’s all that matters.

  Isabel felt an odd unease. The temperature had dropped dramatically in the space of a few seconds. She was on the point of turning to the only exit on the roof when there was a loud metallic crash. The door was forced open as if by a powerful gust of wind.

  She was no longer alone, but in the presence of a stranger. Isabel shrank back and concealed herself behind a stone pediment. The man at the far end of the narrow walkway stood with his back to her, unaware of her presence. Tall and heavily built, his age was uncertain because his head was covered by an elaborate periwig.

  He took a commanding stance, legs planted wide, arms stretched out as if to encompass the entire countryside. His fine clothing proclaimed him a gentleman: an immaculately tailored dark green velvet tail coat worn over knee breeches, white silk stockings and silver buckled shoes. When he turned his head in profile the only jarring note was the crumpled neck linen that lay open at the throat.

  The cold seemed of little concern to him. After removing a silver flask from a pocket he tossed the jacket aside to fall in a crumpled heap. She saw the glint of sunlight on the flask as he raised it high in a flamboyant toast.

  ‘To King and Country! Devil take them both!’ His words echoed in her head as he drained the contents then wiped his fleshy lips with the back of his shirtsleeve, leaving a trace of wine like a bloodstain. He was so close to her that Isabel could see the dark stubble on his jawline and despite his fine clothing he had the smell of a man who had been too busy carousing to bathe.

  Isabel felt trapped, unable to reach the sole exit because the stranger had turned to face her and now stood blocking her flight. There was something strangely familiar about his smile and the odd expression in his eyes chilled her even more than the cold. Was this man one of Uncle Godfrey’s wealthy, eccentric neighbours come to dine with her guardian in a return of hospitality?

  She was appalled by her second thought. Oh Lord, please don’t tell me he’s that older gentleman Uncle has invited here as a prospective suitor. This man is clearly in his cups! How I abhor drunkards.

  Isabel cleared her throat and forced herself to address him. ‘Excuse me, sir, the cold is biting. I must return inside.’

  The gentleman stood his ground. Isabel felt her throat tighten as she watched him in unwilling fascination. He turned his head towards a sun struggling to emerge from the grey mass of clouds – and let out an unnerving cry of ecstasy.

  Isabel felt the hair prickle on the back of her neck. His blue eyes were unnaturally bright. His air of nobility disintegrated as he pressed his fingers to his lips in a childlike gesture of secrecy before chanting words in an alien tongue she could not recognise.

  His sudden move caught her off guard. To her horror he was charging straight towards her, his arms extended sideways in the caricature of an embrace! His body passed so close to her she could smell the musty aroma of incense. She was overwhelmed by an impression of pure evil as he stepped up onto the edge of the parapet, laughing wildly into the face of the sun. Flapping his arms like the wings of a bird he chanted, ‘The Gods are with me. Watch me fly! I am immortal!’

  Laughing, he leapt out into space.

  Isabel struggled against the vertigo that terrified her as she tried to peer over the edge of the parapet. She heard the echo of his laughter end in a heavy thud out of sight below. She was almost overcome by an acute wave of nausea but knew she must not lose consciousness in case by some miracle he had survived the fall.

  She struggled to wrench open the metal door and ran down the stairs in search of someone, yelling that there had been an accident.

  Charging headlong into Baker, an old family retainer, Isabel was almost incoherent but took the old man’s hand and dragged him outside to the stretch of garden that lay directly beneath the line of the victim’s fall.

  She froze at the sight that lay before her. The pristine bed of rose bushes and shrubbery was intact. There was no sign of his body. Not a blade of grass seemed out of place.

  Isabel pointed up in confusion to the exact stone from which the stranger had taken his swallow dive. ‘He can’t have survived that fall. No one could.’

  She was suddenly aware of the frown that creased Baker’s face.

  ‘Is this some kind of a jest, miss? Like April Fools’ Day?’

  ‘Of course not. I tell you I saw him jump. He was as close to me as you are right now.’

  Isabel tugged at his sleeve to detain him, as she blurted out the stranger’s description, remembering the mock beauty spot on his cheek.

  ‘If you say so, miss,’ Baker said warily. ‘I best go back to my duties.’

  Isabel closed her eyes to blot out the realisation. Oh dear God, that gentleman must have been ‘the Other’.

  Disregarding the servants’ startled reactions, she raced up the staircase to the portrait gallery, her hair flying, her skirts bunched up so as not to impede her progress, to search the portraits in pursuit of one particular face she remembered – the one that bore no name.

  Short of breath, she halted before the portrait of a young man dressed in extravagant Georgian style who bore a distinct resemblance to the older man she had just seen leap to his death.

  ‘That’s you, isn’t it?’ she said aloud to the portrait in an attempt to restore a sense of reality to counter the vision she had been forced to witness.

  ‘I take it you’ve seen him, have you, Isabel?’

  The voice behind her spoke in a tone somewhere between pacifying and mild mockery. She spun around to confront Cousin Silas.

  ‘Don’t play with me, Cousin. Who is he?’

  ‘Don’t you recognise the resemblance to us both? My father, Henri, painted in his youth. Before he married my mother and later became enchanted by your mother, Alizon – the witch.’

  Isabel chose to ignore the accusation. ‘He’s not buried in the de Rolland family vault. How did he die?’

  ‘Suicide, a drunken accident or what you will. Father began meddling in the black arts. Came to believe he was greater than Icarus. Leapt off the parapet to prove he could fly and survive.’ Silas shrugged. ‘He did not.’

  Isabel felt the blood drain from her face. Henri de Rolland – the man who accused my mother of being a witch. Yet he himself had met his own death – through practising witchcraft.

  She had a sudde
n flash of insight but she baulked at the word ‘ghost’. ‘You have seen him yourself, haven’t you?’

  ‘He repeats his final folly periodically.’ His hand curved gracefully downwards in illustration of a swallow dive. ‘You see? We share the same gift, my petite cousine.’

  Despite her protective instincts about her dead mother’s reputation, Isabel could not hold back the words. ‘But Henri was your father. Can you feel no pity for him?’

  ‘Father was an amateur who dabbled in what he could not control. Where as I have mastered the black arts.’ He reached out and stroked her hair. ‘That’s why I am the one man who can protect you from yourself – my little witch.’

  His smile was tender, but Isabel found herself trembling as she avoided his hand, dropped a curtsey and hurried away to her bedchamber.

  Something inside her mind had changed irrevocably. Since childhood she had glimpsed misty, fragmentary visions of the Other in this house. Never before had she seen one who appeared to her to be the embodiment of a living person. The significance of that idea terrified her. She could no longer be sure. What was real and what was not? It’s true. I am a witch. I am cursed.

  Needing to regain her grip on reality, she searched for old Agnes, who always had a calming effect on her. But she decided not to confide in the servant about her encounter with the ‘Icarus’ ghost. Agnes would panic, believing it to be a sign of her returning illness.

  Later that morning, as Isabel came back downstairs, she felt a new pulse of vitality inside the great house – as if it was a giant in a fairy-tale being roused from centuries of sleep. Isabel could feel the fresh surge of hope that filtered through to her from Agnes and the network of lives in service who were dependent on the fate of the de Rolland family.

  But is my life being changed for better or for worse?

  Through the windows she looked down on the carriageway. The old family carriage, its doors emblazoned with the ancient crest, stood waiting before the front portico in readiness for the master’s imminent departure for London. It was whispered Uncle Godfrey had important business with the family lawyers that would put an end to the long threat of debtors’ prison. Cousin Silas’s new phaeton stood nearby, its beautiful white horses pawing the gravel as if eager to charge off to some neighbouring estate.